The Runaway Child

Three Years Prior

Dirty looks. Whispering. That’s all I ever get now. Jamie, my best friend, wants nothing to do with me. Teachers act like I no longer exist. The town basically exiled my mother and I. Grades are falling. Depression setting in. A mother who is always locked in her room, distant and alone.

BREAKING NEWS

Jeremiah Gold was found brutally murdered in his house March 28th. An obvious shock in our little quiet town. At this time there are no lead suspects, but wife (Ava) and daughter (Amy) have been taken into custody for questioning. Foul play has been suspected. The funeral will take place at Johnson's Funeral Home. All donations are welcomed.

I’ve been receiving vulgar notes with the news article attached. I have it memorized. People have been sliding them into the slots of my locker. It’s only the third bell and two have fallen out, slowly winding down towards the ground like a lost feather. “Why’d you do it?” is what they always say. 

When I first started getting the notes I was tempted to go to the principal, but even he seemed weary of me. So, I just kept it to myself. Hatred grows within me, sprouting roots deep in my heart. All I want is a normal life. All I want is for people to listen to me. They don’t even know what happened that night, just like me.

I was on a date with Erik, just as I explained to the police. Only, when the police brought him in for questioning, he denied ever seeing me that night. My alibi fell through and I was questioned more.

“Where were you the night of the murder, Ms. Gold?”

“Same place I told you before! I went to the movies with Erik. We got there around eight. We sat down in the second to last row from the top. And we watched the movie. Check the cameras if you don’t believe me!”

“We’re working on that,” at that point they sigh, knowing I’m not going to change my story. “Where was your mother that night?”

“She came to pick me up. I’m only fifteen, I obviously can’t drive myself.”

After another hour of irritatingly stupid questions, they let me leave. A week later, they pulled the footage of the movie theater, and there we were, sitting exactly where I had said. After a couple of days, they finally deemed my alibi truthful. The press then wrote another article stating how me and my mother were no longer suspects, but that didn’t stop the whispering. 

So here I am, a month after the murder, my name cleared, and I’m still being blamed. Hatred, jealousy, and resentment pump through my veins. High off of the emotions that are fogging my better judgment, I made a decision. One which will definitely make me look guilty, but I can’t take it anymore. I have to get out. Get as far away as possible. 

When the bell rings for lunch, I throw my binder into my locker and grab my wallet. Walking out to the student parking lunch, as most do who eat off campus, I try to look as inconspicuous as possible. But once I pass through the double glass doors, breathe the fresh autumn air, I hear him. The annoying and self-centered school security guard, Harold. 

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Amy Gold. Where are you in such a hurry to get to,” he asks, stepping into my path with his hands crossed over his chest and that stupid smirk he thinks is attractive.  

“Can it, Harold. I’m having lunch with Jamie like I always do. If you had any friends, you’d understand that.”

“Well, hunny, it’s been about a month without lunch dates. And last time I checked, Jamie didn’t want anything to do with you. I mean, don’t get me wrong, little white girls who are fighting, mmmm,” he says it with the slightest shiver as if he is getting satisfaction from the thought.

“How about you go bully someone else, you fake pig,” hearing the venom spew of my words, Harlod finally backs off. 

As I’m blowing past him, enraged at what he just imagined, he yells out, “It’s a good thing your daddy’s dead sweetheart! He wouldn’t want a daughter like you carrying around his last name anyways!”

With tears threatening to come loose, and emotions churning my insides, I make my way through the crowded parking lot. I hesitate for a second, and act like I’m surveying the crowd looking for someone before I move once more. The further I walk away from Hell known as public school, some of the tension starts to easy off my shoulders and I can think rationally again. I glance over at a cluster of students trying to decide where to eat lunch, I notice them glancing back. Once I passed the biggest strand of kids, and the parking lots started to thin from crowded to single cars here and there, I veer left, heading straight into the woods. 

My mind is racing. Thoughts of running away have crossed my mind many times within the last month, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Now, walking along a trail that cuts between the high school and bus stop, the timid feelings try to arise, but I push them down. I was the one who put the seed of thought into my head of running away, now that it has grown and blossomed into the mindset of my brain, I can’t rip it out. I can’t go back. This is serious. I don’t just want a new life, I need one. 

By the time I get my thoughts straightened out and my head cleared, I’m in the front of the ticket line, and there’s a girl staring at me. She can’t be no more than nineteen but her eyes look so tired and heavy, dark circles encasing them. 

“Where to,” she asks, she gives a tired sigh and holds herself with an “I don’t care” complex. 

 “However far this will get me,” I hand over a hundred dollar bill, part of my allowance I had been saving up for a new car for my sweet sixteen. I quickly throw in a tiny smile when I see her glance over my body quizzically. She takes the cash and turns towards an old ticket machine. With one loud pop of her bubblegum, and a sigh too big for her petite body, she yanks the ticket out the compartment that it fell into, and thrusts it towards me. 

“Lincoln, Nebraska,” is all she says before taking a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket and sliding one inbetween her lips.

Seeing that she’s done with the conversation, as short as it was, I wrap my coat tighter around me as a cool breeze slices through my thin pants. I hunkerdown in the furthest reaches of the bus station and wait for the greyhound bus. 

After a gruelling thirty minutes, the nus finally rolls up. Seven other people get into line before me, and we all file in one by one, stopping to hand over our bus tickets as we go. Stealing a seat in the very back, far enough away from the rest of the passengers but not close enough to the toilet in the back to make things awkward, I prepare myself for the long journey ahead of me. Slowly letting my mind wonder, the thoughts start swirling around my brain again, trying to get me to turn back. Pleading with me to run off the bus as fast as I can. What if the cops come looking for me? What if they send out a warrent for my arrest?  But the worst question, the hardest for me to ease my mind about comes to me last, sending a shiver down my spine, How is mom going to take this?

By the time I’m done questioning my own actions, and regretting leaving my mother behind, the bus is pulling out of the station. With one last glance over my shoulder, I heave a sigh of pure relief. If the cops come looking, I’ll be halfway to Nebraska by the time they even realize I’m gone. 

My mother, on the other hand, will realize it in a day or two. Depends on when she decides to come out of that room of hers. 

As the last signs of my hometown disappear behind the forest that surrounds it, I can’t help but smile. What’s the reason for worrying anyways? Anything that happens in the small town of Gregory, Utah from now on, is no longer my problem. 

Present

For the next three years, Ava was filled with questions. Three years ago, to this very day, her fifteen year old daughter had gone missing. 

BREAKING NEWS

MISSING PERSON -- Fifteen (15) year old Amy Gold, has gone missing September 4th, midday. Eyewitnesses say they watched her as she headed off of campus during their lunch hour. Rumors are spreading that she had ran because she was guilty of her father’s (Jeremiah Gold) murder. Police are looking further into their investigation to hopefully ease any more rumors. If you have any information on Amy Gold, please contact 1-800-AMBER.

After the first month of Amy’s disappearance, Ava couldn’t go on with her life. Everything that used to make her happy, her work, her social life, deteriorated once her husband passed and then completely vanished when her daughter did. After quitting her job at the Gregory Register, stating she couldn't care less about what happened in her filthy hometown, she devoted her life to finding Amy. 

The police had quit searching, saying there were no leads outside of her classmates watching her leave campus. The cops had said that Amy had just ran away, trying to escape the death of her father, and didn’t want to be found. After three weary years of searching everywhere for Amy, the police had determined her dead. But Ava, knowing her daughter better than anyone else, knew it couldn’t be true. 

Now, dreading the thought of going back to a dark and lonely house, Ava took the long way around town, stopping by the liquor store for her usual alcoholic binge. As much as she hated going to town, with all the sideways glances and the whispering of her being the reason for her family’s deaths, she still needed food. And in a strange sort of way, being out of the house made her feel better. The depressing pictures on the walls, the way everything was still in place from that awful day that Amy up and left, had hung heavy on her shoulders but yet she couldn’t bear to change anything. 

Pulling into her driveway, Ava heaved a deep sigh. She turned off her rickety old Volkswagen, staring up at the low income apartment she had rented. She felt nasty, her husband would have rung her neck if he knew she traded in their BMW and their mini mansion for extra cash, but she needed to fuel her alcohol addiction. Slowly, she made her way up the front steps, taking one at a time, trying to prolong the moment of having to enter. Once to the top of the stairs, she saw something sticking out the side of her screen door. With a jolt of excitement, thinking her daughter had left her a note for some reason, she rushed over and ripped the piece of paper from where it was placed. 

EVICTION NOTICE

Ava Gold, 

This letter is to notify you that you are directed to vacate the property at 1020 Middlebury Ave., Gregory, Utah 84103 no later than September 7th, 2015.

My records indicate that you have missed the following rent payments: May 1, 2015 for $500; June 1, 2015 for $500; July 1, 2015 for $500; and September 1, 2015 for $500. The total amount due is $2,000. 

Your Landlord,

Alferd Goodroe

Ava sighed once more and pushed her back against her front door, as she slid down in a disheveled heap, another note fell out, tucked inside the last. Murderer, is all it read. With a start, she dropped the piece of paper. She was always getting hate mail like that but it felt more personal today. Without picking up the paper, she flung upright and rushed into the house, slamming the door behind her. She collapsed once more, engulfed in tears. What had she done to deserve this? Her sobs grew louder and louder echoing off the empty space in front of her. She couldn’t take it anymore. 

After what felt like hours, she got up, composed herself in the front hall mirror, and moved to the kitchen.  After putting her groceries away, knowing she won’t touch half of it, she poured herself a glass of bourbon. She walked into the bathroom and turned the water all the way up, waiting for it to warm up so she could take a relaxing bath. When she was done, she made her way back into the kitchen, pouring herself another glass of the liquid which soothed her thoughts.

While taking a sip, her phone started to ring. Curious by who it could be, she strolled over to where she sat down her phone and looked at the caller ID. Unknown Number. Thinking it was just another random person, telling her she killed Amy, that she killed her husband, she hit the end button. As soon as she put her phone back down, it rang again. Exasperated, she picked up with an aggressive, “What!?”

“Hi mom. It’s me, Amy,” with horror and excitement coursing through her veins, she dropped the phone. Snapping back to reality, she snatched the phone back up. After hearing her daughter’s voice, all the despair and guilt that had consumed her, that she managed to push away, all came flooding back. A million questions started running through her head, getting stuck in her throat.  Before her words could flow, her daughter’s sweet voice echoed through her speakers again.

“Go, mom. Go to the grave. My grave. Come see me,” then the line went dead. Without thinking, without breathing, without even shutting the front door behind her, Ava ran as fast as she could, straight to her car. 

Pulling up to her daughter’s grave she saw a faint glow overtop Amy’s empty casket. Walking up, hesitant around the grave, she stepped around the outskirts of the glow. It was blue, Amy’s favorite color. While studying it closer, Ava noticed a faint breeze, the wind blowing harder and harder as she kneeled beside the glow. It was like Ava’s personal hurricane. With one more tremendous blast of air, Ava was pushed into the blue light. She threw her hands out, but when she came into contact with what should have been solid ground, she felt nothing. 

Everything around Ava went black, it felt as if she was falling into the abyss of darkness. It was cold and the wind grabbed at her hair, but then, suddenly, the blackness erupted into brilliant blue light. Ava saw ground, but then she realized with horror just how fast it was coming up towards her. She was just about to scream, when a soft breeze pushed her upwards, slowing her descent and making her landing cushioned. 

Looking around, trying to gather her senses, she took in a beautiful sight. Purple trees, blue grass, and huge butterflies flew around overhead, their wings making the wind seem like nothing. Then, under the tallest tree in the forest, she saw a girl. She looked just like Ava, her blonde hair up in a messy bun, skin tan, and blue eyes piercing right through Ava’s soul. It reminded her of the way Amy looked right before she was wisped away into the recesses of her mind. 

“Mommy?” the girl said questioningly. Ava couldn’t believe what she was seeing. With her eyes as wide as a full moon, her mouth dropped open. Her long lost daughter was standing right infront of her! She had to be dreaming, it wasn’t possible she could be in such a mystic place like this. Feeling herself turn lightheaded, she stumbled towards her daughter. With one last faint “Amy,” Ava blacked out into a swirling storm of darkness. 

Author's Note

It isn't finished yet

Reviews

[JayG]

You say you intend to pursue a career in writing. Certainly, that’s a goal I favor. But if your primary goal in life is to be a successful fiction writer there are some hard truths you must take into account to keep from painting yourself into a corner.

1. The average author sells only one book in their lifetime. That doesn’t mean you can’t be a success. People succeed in writing every year. So why not you? It means, though, that you need to prepare to be on an acquiring editor’s desk in competition with people who have sold their work, and others who have spent a decade or-more, perfecting their craft. Being selected for publication isn’t a matter of luck. Nor is it talent, alone. Among other things, it means knowing exactly what readers are seeking, why, and deliberately providing it.

2. Before they sell a word, the vast majority of hopeful writers create, polish, and discard a half-million to a million words. In my case it was a million. There's a lot of practice, study, and frustration involved.

3. The rejection rate in the publisher’s office is greater than 99.9%. And only three in 100 even get asked to submit a full manuscript. So unless you’re in that top 3% you’re not even in the game. And before you talk about to self-publishing, ask yourself, your parents, and your friends, how many self-published books you and they bought and enjoyed in the past year. That will tell you how popular self-published writing is. The average self-pub, when you subtract friends and family, sell less than 100 copies of a given book. So, not much of a living to be made there.

4. In all the days of your schooling, and in writing all those reports and essays you were assigned, you learned no fiction-writing techniques because professions are learned IN ADDITION to the general skills we’re given in school. In the case of writing, you’ve been assigned primarily reports and essays,to train you in the nonfiction skills that employers favor. Write fiction with those skills and techniques and it will read like a report. Fiction is designed to provide an emotional experience—to make the reader feel as if they’re living the story in real-time, moment-by-moment, AS the protagonist. In school you were taught to explain and report in overview. And, you weren’t even told that the emotion-based approach that fiction-writers use exists. So before you can write for publication you need those missing skills. And the good news abot that is that once you master them the acrt of writing becomes a LOT more fun.

And that's where I can help. My goal in this wasn’t to discourage you, only to make you realize what the real situation is. Your talent, at the moment, is irrelevant because it’s untrained. And a talented but untrained writer is at a disadvantage over an untalented but knowledgeable writer. So that's the first thing to fix. For all we know, you're flooded with talent. So give it something to work with.

So…to achieve your goal, you need the skills of the working fiction-writer, which are very different from those of other kinds of writing, from verbal storytelling, and nonfiction. For an overview of the kind of things a fiction writer must take into account as they write, you might dig around in the articles in my writing blog. Specifically, though, I’d suggest, Deconstructing Samantha, in which I show the thinking that went into the first chapter of Samantha and the Bear:
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/07/10/grumpy-writing-coach-7/

And to get a feel for the major difference in approach between nonfiction and fiction, and why it helps, try, Inside Out.
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2015/05/13/inside-out-the-grumpy-writing-coach/

If the inside-out approach to dragging the reader into the story seems worth knowing more about, download Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict. The site I link to below is free, but it’s a PDF file that works on computers and tablets, but not well on phones. If you have only a phone, you can pick up a copy on any online bookseller.
https://b-ok.org/book/2476039/ac87b9

Give it a try. It’s a warm easy read that will give you the basics of writing scenes that will sing to a reader. It won’t make a pro of you. That’s your job. But Deb will give you the tools and the knowledge you need if it’s in you. And while you do, hang in there, and keep-on-writing. The world needs more crazies who can be staring at a blank wall, and when asked what they’re doing, say, “Working.”

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/